


Clintasha Drabbles (Clintasha Advent 2018)

by CricketScribbles



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Guardian Angels, Angst, Baking, Clintasha Advent, Clintasha Advent 2018, Clintasha Week, Cookies, Domestic, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, Drabbles, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Guardian Angels, Happy Ending, Holidays, Hurt/Comfort, One Shot Collection, Romance, Short & Sweet, Sick Character, Sirens, Spies & Secret Agents, Tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-04 23:28:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 14,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16799182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CricketScribbles/pseuds/CricketScribbles
Summary: 25 days of Clintasha drabbles as a countdown to Christmas. Includes: hurt/comfort, angst, (no character death!), romance, holidays, friends-to-lovers, enemies-to-lovers, domestic fluff, and two fantasy AUs (siren and guardian angel).Written for Clintasha Advent 2018 on tumblr





	1. Prompt: Budapest

_December 1st._

**Prompt:** Budapest

This was it. Natasha had finally hit rock bottom. 

She’d clawed her way through hell and back again. Many times over. She’d knocked at death’s door. Stared the devil in the face. Gritted her teeth. And pulled out the winner, victorious. Bloodied, bruised, and broken, but still kicking.

Not now. Not anymore. There was a bullet in her chest, cold metal too close to the warm beat of her heart. She was so tired of fighting…all…the…time…

“Nat.”

She recognized the voice but her thoughts were too sluggish, too slow to identify it.

“Nat.”

Softer this time. A whispered prayer.

Natasha dragged her eyes open. Clint leaned over her and brushed a lock of hair away from the corner of her mouth, her cheek sticky with blood. 

Her blood.

He was the enemy. American. SHIELD. Avengers Initiative. You can have a second chance at a better life, he had told her. So optimistic. Sweet-faced Kansas farm boy tangled up with a Russian assassin. 

He had come to kill her so long ago. To finish her off and roll her body into the nearly-frozen river, her lips blue, ice on her eyelashes, water in her lungs.

Instead, he'd made a different call. Idealist that he was. Starry-eyed with the belief that no matter what horrors she had committed, a clean slate was hers for the taking if she wanted it.

But there was no such thing. Not for her. Too much blood. On her hands. Leaking onto the pavement. Turning her clothes sticky and wet against her skin.

Clint cupped his hand to the back of Natasha’s neck, supporting her head. He slid his other arm behind the crook of her knees.

“I’ve got you,” he said softly, breathing so gentle against her hair like a lover’s kiss. 

Natasha closed her eyes. As Clint picked her up, cradling her in his arms, she didn’t have to fight anymore. She knew she was safe.


	2. Prompt: Music

_December 2nd_

**Prompt: Music**

“Don’t you dare touch my radio,” Natasha said. 

Clint folded his hands in prayer. “Nat. Honey. Sweetheart. _Please._ I am _begging_ you.”

“Still doesn’t change my answer.”

“Babe, you’re killin’ me here. We’ve been listening to every Russian composer on planet Earth for _eighteen hours_.”

“If you’d like a change of pace, there are some audiobooks behind my seat.”

Clint huffed in annoyance. “War and Peace? No thank you.”

“We’re not listening to your iPod, Clint.”

“Come on, Nat.”

“I refuse to suffer through your appalling music tastes.”

“Okay, first of all, rude. My music tastes are not appalling. Second, it’s _a road trip_ , Nat. You’re _supposed_ to sing along to the radio or crank up the remix tapes. It’s a road trip thing. A tradition.”

Natasha cast a glance at him as if to say, _that will never happen._

But when Natasha pulled over for gas an hour later, Clint’s opportunity finally arrived. 

“I’ll handle it,” he said, scrambling out of the car before Natasha could even set foot near the gas pump.

“I can manage -”

“You _have_ to pee, Nat. I know you do.”

“I don’t like public restrooms.”

“Too bad. We won’t get to the cabin for another two days. It’s physically impossible to hold out that long. You’re tough but not that tough.”

Natasha grumbled under her breath but she relented, heading into the gas station. Leaving the car keys in the ignition.

When Natasha returned from the restroom a few minutes later, she spotted Clint...

_...in the driver’s seat of her Jeep._

“No,” Natasha groaned. “No, no, no.”

The windows were rolled down, country music blaring at max volume. Clint drummed against the steering wheel, dancing in his seat, having the time of his life as he sang along, terrible, loud, and off-key...

“SHE THINKS MY TRACTOR’S SEXAAAAYYYY.”


	3. Prompt: Firsts

_December 3rd_

**Prompt: Firsts**

Clint stepped over the threshold of the old farmhouse, breathing in the musty scent of mothballs, dust, and mold. The nut-brown oak floors creaked and groaned beneath his sneakers. Possibilities murmured in the corners, nestled with shadows and spiderwebs.

“I was thinking,” he said. “We could paint the living room that pale shade of purple you like so much, Nat.”

Silence.

“Babe, you better not be leaving me to move the boxes on my own again -”

Clint stopped as he glanced over his shoulder. Nat stood in the doorway, ghost-white and a shiver away from trembling.

“Nat?” he whispered.

In the blink of an eye, Natasha raised an eyebrow and tilted her head up. Whatever hell she’d been wrestling with was now firmly compartmentalized in Pandora’s box, never to be opened again.

“I’m fine,” she said. Cold. Flat. A lie. More for herself than for him.

Natasha turned away and started down the porch steps to the moving van. But Clint placed a hand at her hip. 

Natasha didn’t move. He took that as a good sign and slipped his arm around her waist, tucking his face in the crook of her neck.

“I know it’s a lot to get used to,” he said. “Moving in together. Scrubbing this house clean and making it our own. It’s okay if you need time to adjust.”

Natasha said nothing. But she curved her fingers over the top of his hand. Clint felt her breath hitch, her ribs stalled, lungs locked up. He waited, knowing he couldn’t push her, not when she was braced for fight or flight as she faced this new chapter of her life.

Finally, Natasha spoke, a mere breath in the pause of quiet.

“This is my first real home.”

Such a simple phrase, burdened by a thousand things Natasha would never say.

_This is too good to be true._

_I don’t deserve it._

_I’m scared._

Clint held her a little tighter. “I know. Mine too.”

More silence passed as the ghosts of their memories haunted the hallways of their minds.

“It’s a clean slate, Nat,” Clint said softly against the side of her neck, like a secret just for her. 

“It’s a mess,” Natasha replied, a wobbly laugh in her voice.

“We’ll turn it into something beautiful, sweetheart. I promise.”


	4. Prompt: Tropes

_December 4th_

**Prompt: Tropes**

Natasha extended her arm, as delicate as a ballerina, and wiggled her fingers. The golden chandelier light glinted off of the massive diamond ring, a gross display of wealth to please the audience she held captive at the banquet table.

“I told my dear husband it was far too extravagant,” she said in the thickest Russian accent she’d ever used in her life.

Clint took the cue and raised his glass of champagne as he slipped an arm around her waist. “And I told her that my sweet little kitten deserves all the good things in this world.”

Natasha closed her eyes with a hum of contentment. Clint leaned in and kissed her cheek, egging on the cooing reaction from the audience seated at the table, from prime ministers to presidents. All richer than God himself. 

But one of them had a money laundering business on the side. Clint and Natasha would sniff them out before the night was through.

In the meantime, Natasha and Clint were enjoying themselves, playing besotted husband and pampered wife.

For a brief moment, Natasha caught Clint’s eye. Her beaming smile faltered as she suddenly became aware of the five points of pressure from his fingers on her hip. The silk of her gown was far too thin and Clint’s pupils were far too wide with arousal.

Natasha turned away, her throat suddenly dry. She downed her champagne, her head buzzing from the alcohol, her skin buzzing from the heat of Clint’s hand.

 _Focus,_ she thought. _He’s your partner. Keep it strictly business._

But it had been more than that between them for a long time. And she didn’t want it to be business anyway.

She wanted it to be theirs alone. Whatever this was.

Clint’s hand haltingly settled at the small of her back. It wasn’t a gesture for the crowd. It was small and quiet, a request for permission to support her so intimately.

In response, Natasha settled into his touch.

Clint dipped his head and kissed her bare shoulder. Natasha released a breath of relief.

“It’s about time,” she said.

Clint frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Why do you think I chose a strapless dress?”

Clint’s eyebrows shot up. He fished his comm from his ear and dropped it in his pocket. He leaned closer, his forehead nearly brushing against hers.

“Fury will kill us,” Natasha whispered.

“Don’t care,” Clint replied, his breath at her mouth, the promise of a thousand kisses that would never stop. “Besides,” he added. “I’m tired of sleeping on the floor while you sleep in that big bed all by yourself like a princess.”

“Then do something about it, husband.”

“I will, darling wife.”


	5. Prompt: Hurt and Comfort

_December 5th_

**Prompt: Hurt & Comfort**

Clint knew she would show up eventually. 

On nights like this, with the thunder rumbling like an angry beast in the distance, lightning slashing the sky, bleeding rain against his bedroom window, Natasha always grew uneasy.

He drifted in and out of consciousness, partly staying awake as he waited for Natasha to arrive. At 3am, she materialized from the shadows in his doorway, a windbreaker thrown over her tank top and sleeping shorts. Her hair was plastered to her head, dripping onto his carpet.

“Nightmares or memories?” Clint said, his voice rough with sleep.

“Both,” Natasha replied. She paused then amended, “Neither.”

Clint propped himself up on an elbow. “What does that mean?”

Natasha shrugged, a shift of shadow, a rustle of her jacket. She fidgeted in the doorway, unwilling to cross the threshold even though she’d weathered countless bad nights with Clint before.

“What is it, Nat?” he said softly.

Natasha crossed her arms, shielding herself. 

“I don’t want to be alone,” she whispered.

Clint held out his hand, palm up. “I’m right here, sweetheart.”

Natasha rocked back on her heels, fighting her instincts to run rather than allow herself to be vulnerable. 

In the end, she tiptoed to the bed, shrugging out of her jacket and kicking off her shoes as she went. Clint pulled the covers aside and drew her against his chest, wrapping her in the softness of the sheets and the steady rhythm of his heart.

Natasha tucked her face into the crook of Clint’s neck with a shaky little sigh. Her fingertips tripped alone the landscape of his collarbones. Clint rubbed his hand up and down her back. He turned his head slightly, brushing his lips against her temple, caught between a kiss and a caress.

“Stay,” he mumbled, fuzzy with impending sleep. “Stay here with me all the time. You never have to be alone again.”

Silence. The rush of rain murmured against the window. Natasha’s fingertips went still and she laid her hand flat against Clint’s chest, above his heart.

“Okay,” she whispered back, muffled against his shoulder.

Clint wrapped his arms around her crushingly tight and kissed the top of her head. He closed his eyes, breathing in the soft scent of her damp hair. Natasha’s ribs slotted with his on every inhale and exhale, as if they were always meant to reach this point, two pieces of a puzzle finding the comfort of home in the spaces of each other.


	6. Prompt: FREE DAY

_December 6th_

**Prompt: FREE DAY**

Clint wasn’t answering his phone. 

It didn’t worry Natasha. She never used the big W word. 

But she was _pissed._

She headed straight for Clint’s apartment. If he wasn’t there, she’d retrace his steps until she hunted him down and wring his scrawny neck for ignoring her calls.

Natasha didn’t knock or use the spare key Clint had given her. He didn’t deserve a warning that she was coming. In thirty seconds flat, she’d picked the lock and slipped in the door.

On the couch, a pile of blankets wheezed and sniffled. The top of Clint’s head was barely visible from beneath a massive Darth Vader blanket.

“Did you forget how to use a phone?” Natasha demanded.

Clint startled and sat up. He squinted, eyes bloodshot and blurry. His hair stuck up in every direction and the couch cushion’s seem was imprinted on his cheek.

“Nat,” he croaked in a voice that sounded as if it had been stripped raw. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“That was the point.” Her gaze flicked over him, surveying the miserable state he was in. “What the hell is wrong with you? Why are you still asleep? It’s four o’clock in the afternoon.”

Clint flopped back against the couch and burrowed under the blankets.

“‘M fine,” he mumbled.

Natasha grabbed the blankets and yanked them back. "Liar.”

Clint flung an arm over his eyes and curled in tighter on himself. He flailed one hand out, searching for the blankets Natasha had stolen from him.

“Nat,” he said, part whine, part plea. “It’s cold.”

“Are you hungover?”

“No.”

“You look hungover.”

“I’m sick, okay? Been puking my guts up all day.”

Natasha released the blankets with a flick of her wrist.

“Gross,” she said. “Too much information.”

Clint drew the blankets up over his head again. “You asked.”

Natasha stood there, unsure what to do as she listened to Clint’s labored breathing. On the rare occasions when she was sick, Clint was the one who knew what to do - chicken soup, fuzzy socks, cheesy movie marathon...

But this was out of Natasha’s league. She was trained to attack and defend, not help and heal.

She shifted in place. Glanced at the mass of blankets with Clint buried underneath it all.

Then she disappeared into the kitchen.

A few minutes later, Natasha returned to the couch. She cleared her throat. Clint hooked two fingers over the top of his blanket and peered out at her.

Natasha flapped a tissue at him. “Here.”

Clint stared at it. “Thank you. I think.”

“Just take it,” she said, stuffing it into his hand. She crossed her arms, annoyed.

Clint snorted a dry laugh. “That was _so_ hard for you, wasn’t it?” 

“Shut up.”

He paused. A sloppy little grin spread across his face.

“Wait a minute,” he said. “Were you _worried_ about me?”

“I don’t _worry_. That’s not my thing. You know that.” Natasha nudged his feet. “Now move over. And don’t get your disgusting germs on me.”

Clint shifted to make room for Natasha on the couch. She settled in beside him, a little stiff in this foreign territory of caretaker.

Clint sighed and rested his head in Natasha’s lap. 

“Sorry I made you worry, Nat,” he mumbled, his eyes already sliding closed.

Natasha hesitated. Carefully, haltingly, she combed her fingers through Clint’s hair, watching him fall asleep.

“Just get well soon, you big knucklehead,” she whispered.


	7. Prompt: Colors

_December 7th_

**Prompt: Colors**

Natasha’s apartment was always barren. 

She had the basic necessities - a couch, a few chairs and a table, a bed. But everything was gray, silver, or black. There was no color.

No artwork or posters on the wall. No flowers in the window. Not even a bowl of bright green or candy-red apples. It was a sanitary living space. 

Natasha had been trained to a life on the move. Pick up and leave at a moment’s notice, and not a trace of her existence remained. Personal tastes and creative touches were luxuries she couldn’t afford then. 

And she still didn’t allow herself to have them now, even after her old life had been dead and buried long ago.

“Let’s go shopping,” Clint said one day.

Natasha glanced up from her book with a _what the hell?_ look. 

“Shopping?” she said, incredulous.

Clint shrugged as he continued to flip through channels on the television. 

“Yeah. This place could use a little...”

Natasha closed her book with a threatening snap and stared at him.

“A little _what_?” she demanded.

Clint, unperturbed, shut off the television, set the remote aside. He rose to his feet and placed a hand on the armrest of the couch next to Natasha. He leaned over and kissed her forehead.

“Just a touch of you, Nat,” he said. “That’s all.”

Natasha huffed and returned to her book. “I like it the way it is.”

A few days later, when Natasha woke up, she knew someone had been in her apartment. There was a faint, unfamiliar scent wafting on the air.

Sometimes Clint crept into her apartment and made breakfast for her. But this wasn’t his typical burnt toast, black coffee, and fatty bacon smell. It was soft, airy and light, a scent she didn’t smell very often.

Natasha retrieved her gun from beneath her pillow and edged out of her room, sweeping her apartment.

She stopped.

On the kitchen table was a giant spray of peach-colored roses, tucked into a turquoise blue Ball jar. A shock of color in the otherwise blank canvas of her living space.

There had to be at least a hundred blossoms. Maybe more. Some were in full bloom, fanned out in layer after layer of glossy petals like rays of sunshine. Others were closed up tight, petals so pale they were nearly white.

At the center of the bouquet was a note in Clint’s messy scrawl.

_“A little color to brighten up my girl’s day. Love you, babe. - Clint.”_

Natasha plucked a rose from the bouquet, inhaling the scent as sweet as whipped cream. She picked up her phone, fiddling with the rose, a small smile playing across her face.

When Clint answered on the first ring, Natasha steeled her voice.

“What’s this?” she said.

A pause as Clint stalled for time. “You’ll have to give me more to go on than that. Throw me a bone here, Nat.”

“Don’t play stupid. You know exactly what you did.”

Under his breath, just audible over the phone, Clint mumbled, “Shit.” He cleared his throat. “Look, I know you hate red roses -”

“Always have.”

“But these aren’t red. They’re orange. I think the florist said they were melon-pink. Whatever you want to call them.”

“Clint,” Natasha cut in.

“Yes?” he replied, a lilt of hope in his voice, as if to say, _please don’t kill me._

“I’ll need some throw pillows to match the bouquet,” she said.

Clint took in a breath to speak but Natasha cut him off.

“Don’t you dare say I told you so.”

Clint released his breath in a rush. “Fine,” he grumbled. “If I can’t brag, can I take you out to dinner at least?”

“Maybe. Only if you buy me dessert.”

“Deal.”


	8. Prompt: SHIELD and The Avengers

_December 8th_

**Prompt: SHIELD and The Avengers**

“I still don’t understand why we have to tell them,” Natasha said. “It’s none of their business.”

Clint took her hand and kissed her knuckles. He tucked her arm in the crook of his elbow.

“Two reasons,” he said. “One: you lost that poker game to me last night.”

Natasha narrowed her eyes. “You cheated.”

“Can’t prove it.”

“I will someday.”

Clint bit the inside of his cheek to hide a smile. “I’m sure you will. Strip poker would have been less painful by the way.”

“In your dreams, Barton.”

Clint shrugged. “It was worth a shot.”

“What’s the second reason?” Natasha said.

Clint placed his hand over hers, his thumb brushing across the top of her knuckles. “It’s been ten years. I think it’s high time we got it out in the open.”

Natasha grumbled and looked away. “Maybe.”

“You could admit I’m right once in a while. It won’t kill you, despite what you may think.”

“It’ll give you a big head. I have to keep you humble.”

“Geez, Nat. Just cut a man off at the knees, why don’t you?”

“You love me for it.”

Clint leaned in and kissed her cheek. “I do, God help me.”

When Clint and Natasha arrived in the lounge of the Stark Tower, the entire team of Avengers was already there. Steve paced back and forth, arms crossed, anxious over the unexpected call to assemble. Tony was passing out margaritas, seemingly unaffected by the impromptu meeting.

“What’s going on?” Steve said, the moment Clint and Natasha stepped out of the elevator and into the room.

Clint glanced at Natasha but she didn’t seem inclined to say anything. This was all Clint’s idea.

“Nat and I have some news,” he said.

Tony sipped at his margarita, eyebrows raised, as he watched them over the rim of his glass.

Clint took Natasha’s hand in a tight squeeze. She was barely breathing and her shoulders were too rigid. She didn’t want to surrender this small scrap of privacy she had protected for so long. Trust was never easy for her.

“Nat and I have been seeing each other for a while now,” Clint said to the utterly silent room. “It’s pretty serious. I’m moving in with her next month.”

No one spoke. Thor shifted in his seat and took a handful of peanuts from a bowl on the coffee table. Tony downed the last of his margarita and set the glass on the table.

“I called it,” he said. “Cough up, Thunderpants.”

Thor grumbled and fished a wad of cash from his pocket, slapping it in Tony’s open palm. 

“We’re happy for you,” Steve said with a bittersweet smile on his face.

Bruce pointed between Clint and Natasha. “Wait...you two? Together?”

“Come on, Banner,” Tony said, draping an arm over the back of the couch. “Don’t tell me you didn't know this was going on. Every time they looked at each other, the sexual tension was through the roof.”

"Thank you for that classy observation, Stark,” Natasha said. 

Tony beamed. “You’re welcome. Margaritas to celebrate?”

“I’ll probably need something a little stronger.”

“Vodka it is.” He pushed off of the couch, heading for the kitchen. As he passed Natasha, she slipped two fingers into his back pocket and snatched the wad of cash Thor had handed over. She tapped it against her palm in triumph.

“I guess telling the team has its perks,” she said.


	9. Prompt: Emotions

_December 9th_

**Prompt: Emotions**

“It’s for the best, Clint,” Natasha said, her voice cold and practical. The decision had already been made.

“No,” Clint replied, shaking his head. “You don’t mean that.”

Natasha crossed her arms and simply looked at him with that expression he’d come to know so well. Stubborn. Defiant. Unmoving.

Clint struggled to sit up, the stitches in his stomach tugging at his skin as he moved. He bit his lip to hide a grimace. If he showed even a hint of pain, he wouldn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell at getting Natasha to change her mind.

“Nat, honey,” he said, struggling to keep his tone level. “Can’t we talk about this?”

“It’s over.”

She turned to leave, her posture so rigid, so unyielding and straight.

“You’re a coward, Natasha Romanoff,” Clint said, his voice pitched low, every word honed to a sharp point, driven home with an archer’s precision.

Natasha stopped and slowly turned around to face him. “Excuse me?”

Clint pushed himself up further, swung his legs over the hospital bed. Monitors beeped wildly as his heart rate skyrocketed, adrenaline coursing through his veins.

“I got shot,” he said. “Shit happens on the job. You’re no stranger to that. But you’re letting it run you off now. Taking the easy way out.”

Natasha clenched her teeth, a muscle twitching in her jaw. “That’s not the issue here.”

“Then what is it, Nat? Is it because you don’t deserve a home and friends who care about you? Or is it because of me?”

Natasha snapped. 

"Yes, it’s you,” she growled, jabbing a finger in his chest. “You compromised SHIELD just to jump in front of that bullet and save me. That kind of bullshit is unprofessional and so goddamn selfish. You don’t get to pin this on me and call me the coward when you’re the one who put his own desires above countless lives.”

“Selfish,” Clint echoed with a bitter laugh. “You still don’t get it.”

Natasha huffed. “You’re proving my point, Clint. We can’t be together when you act like this.”

“Act like what?” Clint demanded. He rose to his feet, his head spinning from a cocktail of painkillers, his stomach aching from the hole left by a sniper’s bullet. “Like I give a damn? Not everyone can pull off the ice queen schtick that you do.”

Natasha’s eyes blazed. “That’s _exactly_ what I mean. You think your actions don’t have consequences.”

“I know damn well the consequences of my behavior, Nat,” Clint replied, his voice cracked and raw, on the verge of full-blown shouting. “If I didn’t do something, if I let that bullet hit its target, you would be dead. I have fought by your side every step of the way and I’m not about to just throw that away,” he said, flinging his hand out.

“Then you’ve lost sight of your duty. I’m not your pet project.”

“I. love. you. Nat. How many times do I have to tell you that before you believe me?”

Silence.

Natasha rocked back on her heels. A myriad of emotions flickered across her face like a flipbook as she wrestled to get them under control, to slide that mask into place.

The tension in Clint’s shoulders melted at the sight of Natasha, wrestling with this revelation that had finally, _finally_ struck home. He stepped toward her, gliding his hands up her arms to rest on her shoulders.

“How?” she croaked.

Clint frowned. “How what?”

“How could you love me? After...everything?”

 _Christ,_ he thought. She never asked questions like that. It left her too vulnerable, sounding too needy and desperate. He brushed his thumb along the curve of her chin.

“Despite the hell you’ve been through,” Clint said. “You’ve always protected the hope that you could be a better person. I’ll take every bullet that comes your way if it means you don’t have to protect that hope alone anymore.”

Natasha stared up at him for so long without saying a word. Her lips tightened into a thin line as she swallowed over and over, fighting for her composure. 

Clint cupped her face in his hands and Natasha’s eyes slid closed, a tear rolling down her cheek. Her fingers crept up over his hip, curled into the front of his hospital gown with a death grip.

Clint rested his forehead against hers, memorizing the feel of her skin beneath his fingertips, her breath soft at his mouth.

“Please don’t disappear on me, sweetheart,” he whispered.

Natasha shook her head. Her hand skimmed up his chest and curved around the back of his neck. She tilted her head up, pressing a lingering kiss to his lips, as if to say _I’m not going anywhere._


	10. Prompt: Younger Days

_December 10th_

**Prompt: Younger Days**

“You can’t be serious,” Clint said. He turned his head, adjusting his pillow with one hand as he looked at Natasha. “You’ve _never_ made cookies before? Ever?”

She kept her gaze trained on the ceiling and tugged the sheets a little higher up, as if to shield herself after this involuntary slip of information.

“It’s no big deal, Clint,” Natasha said.

He propped himself up on one elbow. “Of course it’s a big deal. It’s like…the best thing about being a kid.”

Natasha huffed and finally met Clint’s eye. “I didn’t exactly have much of a childhood, remember?”

Regret flickered across Clint’s face. He took in a breath to apologize but Natasha stared at him with a _don’t you dare_ expression and he quickly swallowed his words.

Instead, Clint swept the sheets aside. Natasha recoiled from the intrusion of chilly air.

“What are you doing?” she demanded. “It’s three o’clock in the morning.”

“I’m makin’ cookies,” Clint declared, tugging a shirt on as he shuffled out of his bedroom and into the kitchen.

Natasha rolled over into the warm indent of the mattress Clint left behind.

“Suit yourself,” she said. “I’m not missing out on my beauty sleep.”

The only response she received was the clang and clatter of pots and pans, echoing from the kitchen.

Natasha buried her face in Clint’s pillow, surrounded by the scent of his soap and aftershave, reveling in the remnants of his body heat, growing cold on the sheets. 

But then she smelled it. Sugar. Cinnamon. Vanilla. Impossible to resist. So cozy and comforting in its normalcy.

Natasha slid out of bed, dragging the warm sheets with her. She found Clint in the kitchen, flour dusted across one cheek, a streak of melted chocolate stretched along his forearm.

Natasha hoisted herself up to sit on the counter, the sheets wrapped around her. Clint cast a triumphant glance over his shoulder at her.

“Knew you’d crack eventually,” he said.

“Just give me food.”

Clint brandished a spatula dripping with melted chocolate. “Your wish is my command, princess.”

Natasha licked it clean, her heels drumming on the cabinets as she swung her legs back and forth. Clint upended a bag of M&Ms into the mixing bowl. 

“Weren’t you supposed to measure that?” Natasha said.

“I beg your pardon,” Clint said, with a shooing motion. “The art of cookie making does not conform to restrictive standards such as measurements.”

“In other words, you have no idea what you’re doing,” Natasha mused, sliding her finger over the arc of the spatula to get the last of the chocolate.

Clint threw in a handful of mini marshmallows. “You underestimate my genius.”

Natasha snorted. Clint pointed a wooden spoon at her.

“I heard that,” he said.

As the cookies baked, Clint watched from the oven window, arms wrapped around his knees. When the timer went off, he whisked the pan out of the oven and onto the cooling rack. He slid two cookies onto a plate and handed it to Natasha, along with an ice cold glass of milk.

She took a bite, her mouth flooded with marshmallows, rainbow sprinkles, and M&Ms. Clint nodded with a grin as he watched her. He pushed his hips between her knees, the sheets bunching up around her waist. The width of his palms curved over the top of her thighs, gliding up to the hem of her nightgown as he leaned into her.

“What do you think?” he said. “It’s good, right?”

“It’s a lot of sugar,” Natasha replied, muffled around her mouthful.

“But you like it?” Clint coaxed.

His eyes were so bright, his face so boyish with eagerness and excitement. Natasha held the cookie up to him and he bit off half of it, chocolate smearing across his bottom lip. Natasha wiped it away with her thumb.

But as she started to speak, Clint raised one finger.

“Hold that thought,” he said, rushing out of the kitchen.

Natasha blinked. “Where are you going?”

“There’s only one thing better than cookies and milk!” Clint called from the living room.

“I’m afraid to ask.”

Clint poked his head into the kitchen, grinning from ear to ear.

“A blanket fort.”


	11. Prompt: Senses

_December 11th_

**Prompt: Senses**

Four months, three days, seven hours, and forty-two minutes since the last time Natasha had seen Clint or heard his voice. 

But working undercover required complete anonymity. She couldn’t run the risk of being compromised in the field, putting countless lives in danger, Clint included.

Before SHIELD, Natasha volunteered for undercover work. It was easy to erase herself and don the skin of a new persona until it wasn’t needed anymore and she shucked it off for another life.

But now...cutting ties with Clint, being so far away from him for months at a time...it was getting to her.

Natasha calculated how long it would take to drive from the airport to Clint’s apartment.

Thirty-four minutes, fifteen seconds.

_Too long, too long, too long._

Natasha took every shortcut she knew, ran every red light she could get away with, and floored the gas pedal. She ran up the stairs two at a time, barreled in the door of Clint’s apartment, tossing her luggage aside, heedless of where it landed.

“Nat?” Clint called, his voice muffled from the living room. “Is that you?”

Natasha didn’t answer. She found Clint in his ratty blue armchair, Xbox controller in his hands, gaze glued to the television screen as he raced spaceships through alien landscapes.

Without a word, Natasha climbed into Clint’s lap, straddling him. She took his face in her hands and kissed him with bruising insistence. Clint made a muted sound of surprise against her mouth, his Xbox controller clattering to the floor, forgotten.

“Babe, babe, wait. Hold on a second.” He pulled back from her, looking up into her face. “What’s going on? I thought you were undercover for another two months.”

“Finished early,” Natasha said, fingers tugging his shirt free from his belt. She slid her palms up the warm skin of his stomach and closed her eyes.

She had been so cold, so empty, so barren of any feeling for four months. When she was alone, she buried everything. She made sure she felt nothing at all.

It wasn’t like that with Clint. She thawed out around him, allowing herself to experience everything she was afraid to face on her own. 

But sometimes, she couldn’t flip the switch. And one day, she feared she would permanently be stuck in that blank nothingness, just like she had been before.

Clint could see it written all over Natasha’s face. He cupped his hand to her cheek and pulled her in for a softer kiss this time, the slick heat of his tongue gliding along her bottom lip, teasing into her mouth. He tasted like bitter black coffee and apple pie.

Natasha’s eyes slid closed. She cradled the back of his head in her hand, locked her fingers in his hair. She buried her face in his neck, inhaling the sting of his aftershave, the spices of home cooking, and something so sweet underneath, like peppermints or chocolate after a candy binge.

Desperation still burned beneath Natasha’s skin. She couldn’t touch him enough, taste him enough, hear him enough, see him enough. Frost lingered at the edges of herself, numbing, icy, frozen.

“I can’t feel anything,” Natasha whispered, panic creeping into her voice.

Clint took her hand and pressed a kiss into her palm.

“Yes, you can, honey,” he said. “You’re home. Give yourself a minute to realize that you’re safe.”

Clint curved his fingers over her hip, his thumb nudging under the hem of her shirt. He watched her face, holding her gaze as the broad width of his palm skimmed up her back and settled against her spine.

Natasha took in a breath of relief and released it.

“Now you’re getting warmed up,” Clint murmured, leaning forward to mouth at the hollow beneath her ear.

Natasha rested her forehead on the top of Clint’s head, hooking her arms around his shoulders.

“Keep going,” she said. “Please don’t stop.”

Clint worked the buttons of Natasha’s shirt free, one by one. He kissed each new inch of skin he uncovered - her collarbone, her shoulder, the inside of her elbow. Just a soft pressure of his lips, a reminder that life could be kind and gentle, not always honed bullets and sharpened blades.

When Natasha’s shirt fluttered to the floor, Clint hooked his arms around her waist and picked her up. He slid out of the chair, dropped to the floor on his knees and laid Natasha out on the carpet, the fibers itchy against her bare back.

For a moment, Clint hovered above her, one hand at her waist, his thumb brushing back and forth over the dip of her ribs, the other hand hooked behind her knee.

"Tell me what you need, Nat,” he said.

Natasha didn’t say anything. She simply opened her arms to him. 

She didn’t look at the clock. She didn’t count minutes or seconds. All she knew was the taste of Clint’s mouth against hers. The heat of his body blazing with her own. The low cadence of his voice, telling her over and over, _You’re home._


	12. Prompt: Secrets

_December 12th_

**Prompt: Secrets**

When Clint stepped into his apartment, the light flicked on before he could reach for the switch. He flinched and turned, his heart jack-hammering against his sternum.

A figure sat in his armchair, the lamplight casting a golden halo on a head of very red hair.

“Jesus Christ, Nat,” Clint breathed. “I hate it when you do that.”

“You’ve been really jumpy lately,” she said.

Clint’s blood ran cold at the hard edge to her tone. He knew what that meant - trouble was coming and his neck was on the chopping block.

He tossed his keys on the counter, turning his back on Natasha to pull open the refrigerator.

“I’m fine,” he said. 

Even though he knew avoiding eye contact was a textbook sign that everything was far from fine. Natasha would pick up on that in a heartbeat.

To cover his ass, he added, “Been working too many long hours. I’ll needle Fury for some time off this weekend. Maybe we could go out for dinner, catch a movie.”

Clint grabbed a can of beer and popped the tab as he kicked the refrigerator door closed.

Natasha rose to her feet, her movements measured and deliberate. Precise. She was calculating, preparing to deliver a blow that would put Clint on his knees and leave him breathless. He could see all the signs that an attack was coming. But with Natasha, there was no telling where she would strike.

Natasha placed her hands on the kitchen island, the counter standing between them - a meager shield that wouldn’t protect Clint from Natasha’s killer instincts.

“What are you not telling me, Clint?” she said.

He swallowed. “Nothing.”

Natasha’s jaw twitched. “You’re lying. To my _face_ ,” she spat, incredulous.

“Nat, come on.”

She shoved away from the counter. “We’ve talked about this. _I hate secrets_ ,” she said through her teeth, biting off each word and spitting them out as if they left a bad taste in her mouth.

“Our number one rule,” she continued, “has always been honesty. No secrets allowed. Ever.”

“It’s not a secret,” Clint said in a rush.

“Then what’s going on? Most days, you won’t even look at me.”

Clint’s gaze flicked up to her face. And slid away again. 

_Damn it._

“I can’t tell you,” he said, miserable.

Natasha huffed. “Can’t or won’t?”

“Nat, it’s just -”

“Are you seeing someone?”

The words slammed into Clint like a kick to his solar plexus, driving the air out of his lungs. He rocked back on his heels, blinking, stunned.

“What?” he rasped.

Natasha stared at him, stiff, rigid. She was slipping away, right before his eyes. He was losing her. Because of this one little thing.

Clint cleared his throat, still struggling to get his breath back.

“No, Nat. I promise, there’s no one else.”

Natasha continued to stare at him in damning silence. She didn’t believe him. And why should she? He’d admitted that he was keeping a secret and secrets were off limits. Forbidden.

When Clint didn’t say anything, Natasha shook her head. She grabbed her purse and moved for the door.

“Where are you going?” Clint said, part disbelief, part panic at seeing her walk away from him.

“I’m leaving,” Natasha replied. “I’ll be back when you’re done holding out on me.”

“Natasha -” Clint called after her.

But the door had already closed.

***

Clint gave Natasha space for three days. She needed time to cool off and he needed to come up with a plan to smooth things over.

By the fourth day, Clint found Natasha at her favorite cafe on the corner with a latte and an old paperback resting on her knee. That was half of a good sign at least. She was willing to be out in the open, willing to be found, to cooperate if he would come clean.

But she didn’t look up as Clint pulled out a chair across from her and sat down.

“I certainly hope,” Natasha said, “that the only reason you’re here is to explain what the hell is going on with you.”

“It is.”

Natasha closed her book, set it on the table beside her coffee. She leaned back in her chair and leveled a frigid cold gaze at him. Waiting.

Clint pulled out a picture from his pocket, placed it in the middle of the table, sliding it over to her. Natasha picked it up and her face softened slightly.

“A cat?” she said.

“Her name is Angel. She’s in bad shape. Found on the side of the road. Starved, abused, the whole nine yards.”

Natasha hesitated as her gaze flicked over the picture one last time. She tossed it back on the table.

“What does that have to do with anything?” she said.

“I’ve been spending every spare minute at the humane society with her these days,” Clint said. He paused as he looked down at the picture of the small, scared little cat, curled up in a ball, staring out from behind the gray steel bars of her cage. “I couldn’t look at you because I wanted to tell you everything. And I was afraid you’d figure out that...she’s your birthday present.”

The indignation of Natasha’s posture melted away. “My birthday isn’t for another two months.”

Clint shrugged. “Angel needs a lot of help. I wanted her to be as healthy as possible the first time you met her.”

Natasha studied him for a moment then reached out and took the picture again.

“I was going to tell you, Nat,” Clint said. “It was supposed to be a surprise. Not a secret.”

Natasha brushed her thumb over the picture. “Can I see her?”

Clint pushed back his chair and stood, offering his hand to Natasha. She slid her arm through the crook of his elbow, briefly touching her cheek to his shoulder in an apologetic gesture.

“Maybe we should put surprises on our taboo list, too,” Clint said.

“Why?”

“Because if you break into my apartment like that one more time, I’m pretty sure I’ll have a heart attack.”


	13. Prompt: Missions

_December 13th_

**Prompt: Missions**

"Well, Coulson said we’re not going anywhere,” Clint said.

Natasha sagged. She had been so diligent to hide her exhaustion during the mission, but it was beginning to peek through now, only a plane ride away from home.

“Can’t we just rent a car and drive?” Natasha said. 

“Not in this weather.” Clint gestured to the windows, whited out by the blizzard. “Everybody’s bedding down for the night. It should be cleared up by morning.”

Natasha crossed her arms, tucking her chin in the collar of her BITE ME hoodie.

“The hotels are booked though,” she said. “I checked.”

“We can just sleep in the airport. It’s pretty quiet.”

Natasha wrinkled her nose at that thought but she knew it was useless to protest. Clint dragged their luggage into a secluded portion of the terminal, creating a half circle, hemming them in for a meager attempt at privacy.

Clint settled on the floor and held out his hand to Natasha. She sighed and curled up beside him, her head nestled beneath his chin. Her fingers crept beneath the hem of his shirt, seeking the warmth of Clint’s skin. 

“I was thinking,” he said.

“That’s always dangerous,” Natasha replied.

“Very funny, Romanoff.”

Clint could feel her grin, lips upturned against the side of his neck.

“You left the door wide open,” she said. “It was my responsibility to take the opportunity you so willingly handed over.”

“I would expect nothing less.”

“What were you going to say?”

Clint considered, weighing his words as he threaded his fingers through Natasha’s hair.

“We should have a post-mission tradition,” he said.

Natasha frowned and shifted to drape her arm over his middle. 

“I don’t know,” she hedged. “Most of the time, I just want to go home and decompress for a while.”

“So we’ll make it low-key.”

Natasha propped herself up on one elbow to look down at Clint. “This sounds pretty important to you. Why?”

Clint shrugged. He coiled a lock of Natasha’s hair around his finger and released it, letting it spring back into place.

“Kind of feels like we’re just...waiting around for the next mission,” he said. “It would be good to have something normal to look forward to after work.”

Natasha studied him for a moment and tapped her finger against his chin.

“All right,” she said. “Did you have something in mind?”

“A bubble bath.”

Natasha breathed a faint, tired laugh. “I should have known. What about food? We could get take-out. Or order in.”

“Thai?”

“Pizza. And for dessert, we could get those chocolate eclairs from the bakery on the corner.”

Clint groaned. “You’re making me hungry.”

“You started it.”

Natasha ducked her head to hide a yawn and sagged against Clint again, her breathing already beginning to even out as sleep tugged her into unconsciousness.

“Pajamas,” Clint whispered.

“What?” Natasha mumbled.

“No weapons. No holsters. No practical clothing. Only pajamas are allowed in our post-mission tradition.”

A pause settled between them and Clint almost thought that Natasha had fallen asleep. But then she spoke.

“Clint,” she said. “You don’t even own pajamas. You sleep naked.”

Clint chuckled. “Exactly.”


	14. Prompt: FREE DAY

_December 14th_

**Prompt: FREE DAY**

When Nick Fury showed up on Natasha’s doorstep at 2am, she knew something was wrong. And not in the usual avengers-assemble kind of wrong. In the pit of her stomach, she felt it. The dread. Hollow. Gaping. Making it impossible to breathe. And Fury hadn’t said a word yet.

“Just tell me,” Natasha said, her voice hoarse.

“Barton’s helicopter was shot down,” Fury said. Straight to the point, like an arrow to the heart. 

Then he faltered, a bare moment of hesitation. 

The truth wasn’t what hit Natasha the hardest. From day one, she had been expecting this. In her line of work, good things didn’t last long. In the back of her mind, she had always known that this day would come.

It was that stutter of breath, that slight stumble from the implacable, unshakable Fury that made Natasha’s knees buckle. Fury caught her arm, easing her to the floor. She sat with her back against the door frame, her knees pulled up to her chest, arms locked around her legs. Holding herself together when she was falling apart.

“How bad?” Natasha said. The words tasted like ash and blood in her mouth. She knew the answer. But she needed to hear it.

Fury squeezed her shoulder. “He’s gone.”

And everything went white.

***

“It’s not true,” Natasha said, matter-of-fact.

Three days had passed since Fury’s visit. An hour after Natasha received the news, Steve had arrived and he hadn’t left her side since.

“Natasha,” Steve started, in that tone she was beginning to hate. 

“Don’t,” she growled with a sharp look.

Steve didn’t even blink at her warning. “I know this is hard -”

Natasha held up her hand as she shook her head, turning away. “I’m not listening to this.”

“You have to face the fact that there isn’t a body to -”

Natasha whipped around and shoved him in the chest with both hands. Steve blinked in surprise and stumbled back a step.

“Shut. Up,” she said through gritted teeth. “Clint is _not_ dead. He’s alive out there somewhere and I _will_ bring him home.”

***

For two months, Natasha searched the mountains for wreckage of Clint’s helicopter. 

She found twisted metal and broken glass, buried amid the snow. She found the torn and tattered remains of a parachute, still wrapped up tight, never deployed. She found Clint’s jacket, a black scrap of fabric splayed wide across the ground, as if he had been making snow angels and simply abandoned it.

But there was no sign of Clint. No blood. No bones. No body. Nothing for her to grieve. Nothing for her to bury.

With every passing day, with every step that sank into the snow, Natasha felt the grasp on her certainty slipping. How long could Clint survive out here on his own after the crash?

_He’s gone. He’s gone. He’s gone._

Ever since Fury had said those two hideous words, Natasha had been doing her best to outrun them. But his words were catching up to her. A relentless chant, driving her toward acceptance of defeat.

Natasha marched deeper into the mountains, the burn in her muscles a welcome reprieve from the insanity she desperately fought to escape.

The clouds moved apart and the sun blazed in her face. Natasha raised a hand to shield her eyes...and something shifted on the horizon, next to an outcropping of black rocks jutting up toward the sky. Only a sliver of shadow, hardly enough for identification.

That glimpse was all Natasha needed.

She shrugged out of her backpack and ran. She skidded in the snow, cold air aching in her screaming lungs from the exertion at such a high altitude with so little oxygen. But she didn’t care.

The shadow on the horizon paused. She could see it was a figure now. Human. Standing a little lopsided but standing nonetheless. And there was only one other human in this part of the mountains.

Natasha barreled into Clint so hard and fast that they dropped into the snow, a tangle of arms and legs and breathlessly cold relieved laughter. She kissed him in a mess of teeth and tongue, her fingers fumbling at buckles and buttons to get at his skin, to feel the pulse of his heart and the heat of life coursing through him.

“I knew it,” she mumbled against his mouth between kisses. “I knew you were alive.”

Clint’s hands were everywhere. On Natasha’s hips. Buried in her hair. Cupped to the back of her neck. Cradling her face. 

“I’m so sorry, Nat,” he said, resting his forehead against hers. “The radio was fried. My leg is broken so I couldn’t hike anywhere. And the crash kicked up this avalanche that dragged me down here -”

“Clint,” Natasha said, touching a finger to his lips. She stopped at the feel of his mouth, the line of his lips, the curve of his chin. God, she’d missed him. “Just tell me you’re okay.”

Clint held her gaze for a moment, the snow wreathed around them in an icy cloud.

“I’m okay, Nat. I promise.”

Natasha pulled Clint into her arms and closed her eyes.

For too long, she had lied to herself. No amount of preparation could steel her for the loss of him. And now that Clint was safe and warm and all hers once more, she had no intention of giving him up. No one was taking Clint Barton down without one hell of a fight from Natasha Romanoff.


	15. Prompt: Seasons

_December 15th_

**Prompt: Seasons**

_**SUMMER** _

“I have never felt so disgusting in my life,” Natasha said.

Clint, reclining in a lounge chair on the deck of Tony’s boat, turned his head toward Natasha, his eyes shielded by dark sunglasses.

“You look pretty good to me,” he said. “Didn’t think anyone could actually pull off a lime green bikini.” He paused then held up a hand. “I’m not just saying that in the hopes you won’t bite off my head. I’m serious.”

Natasha chose to ignore that last comment. She delicately picked herself up off of the lounge chair, her skin slurping away from the plastic.

“How can you stand it out here?” she said. “It’s so hot.”

Clint raised his eyebrows, the corner of his mouth tipped up in an almost-smile. “Is that a joke or - ?”

Natasha glared at him. Clint gave a sharp nod.

“Not a joke. Got it.” He leaned his head back against the lounge chair. “You could jump in the water to cool off. That’s the whole point of stealing Tony’s boat for the weekend.”

“Then I’d be wet _and_ sweaty,” Natasha shot back over her shoulder. She stomped down the stairs below deck and into the cramped little kitchen. She yanked open the freezer door and let the frigid air wash over her.

A minute later, Clint descended the stairs and paused halfway down at the sight of Natasha in front of the freezer.

“Not a word,” Natasha growled.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Smart man.” Natasha fished a bag of ice out of the freezer and hugged it like a pillow. “I hate summer.”

***

**_WINTER_ **

“You do realize,” Clint shouted over the howling blizzard wind, “that there are twenty-two inches of snow on the ground? And it’s not stopping?”

Natasha glanced at Clint, her short red hair a stark contrast against the white of the snow. Her coat was unbuttoned, leaving only the thin fabric of her t-shirt to shield her from the cold. She wasn’t even shivering. Her face was turned into the wind, cheeks flushed with a chilled pink, snowflakes dusting her hair and eyelashes.

Clint, on the other hand, was bundled up until all Natasha could see were his eyes. A scarf was wrapped around his nose and mouth. He wore two beanies, layered one over the other and pulled down low. And he must have had at least three coats on.

“Clint,” Natasha said. “It’s barely below freezing.”

“Freezing is the key word there.”

“Kansas gets snow all the time. I thought you’d be used to it. What are you complaining about?”

“I’m not in Kansas anymore!”

Natasha raised an eyebrow with an amused look. Clint jabbed a mittened finger at her.

“Don’t you dare laugh,” he said. “I’ll be lucky if I still have all my fingers and toes intact after this.”

“Poor baby,” Natasha cooed with a teasing pout. “Maybe if you click your heels three times and say, ‘There’s no place like home,’ you can skip your way out of here on the yellow brick road with the Lollipop Guild.”

"Of all the movies you could have referenced, that was the one you chose?”

Natasha cackled. “Suck it up, Barton. It’s not that cold. And the faster this mission is completed, the sooner we can get out of here.”

Clint trudged after Natasha, deep into the frozen Russian landscape.

“I hate winter,” he grumbled.


	16. Prompt: Pets/Animals

_December 16th_

**Prompt: Pets/Animals**

“It’s no different than a horse,” Natasha called for the fifth time in five minutes.

“Would you _stop_ saying that?” Clint said, exasperated. 

Natasha raised her eyebrows at his outburst. He flapped his hand in a frustrated gesture. The hot desert sun wasn’t helping matters either. It felt as if his skin was baking on his bones to a crisp, frying his patience to nothing.

“Sorry,” he said. “Just…give me a second to work this out here.”

Natasha leaned back in her saddle, looking completely relaxed and at ease as her camel stood there without so much as a twitch.

Clint’s camel, on the other hand, made a low rumbling sound in its throat that sounded terrifyingly close to a growl. He slowly reached out and managed to grab one of the reins.

“Easy, buddy,” Clint said. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

The camel side-eyed him, lips twitching to flash its teeth.

“Oh god, please don’t bite me,” Clint muttered under his breath. 

Natasha said, “You have to be more assertive than that.”

Clint shot her a dirty look. “Not helpful, Nat.”

She shrugged. “Then stop dawdling and get your ass in the saddle, cowboy.”

Clint huffed and turned toward her, mouth open to protest. His camel lunged toward him. Clint squawked and skirted out of biting range.

“It was _one_ rodeo!” he said. “I was sixteen and stupid. Hardly classifies me as a cowboy.”

“Clearly,” Natasha said in a dry, amused tone.

Clint readjusted his grip on the reins and sidled up to the camel’s side. He managed to get one foot in the saddle’s stirrup before the camel started to move in circles. Clint hopped on one foot to keep his balance.

Natasha laughed and finally urged her camel forward. She took the bridle of Clint’s camel in a firm grip. The camel stood still long enough for Clint to pull himself into the saddle.

“Glad you could join the caravan, one-time-rodeo,” Natasha said.

“Watch it, Romanoff,” Clint replied, grimacing as he adjusted his seat in the world’s most uncomfortable saddle he’d ever encountered. “When we leave Morocco, I’m sure it would be no trouble to check up on Rogers before we head home. Last I heard, he’s on a mission in the Amazon. Plenty of monkeys to go around there.”

Natasha’s smile vanished. “Shit-slinging little bastards.”

Clint chortled with triumph. “I know how much you like them.”

She tilted her chin up. “Then I guess you'll enjoy sleeping on the couch for two weeks."

He went stone-cold serious. “Nat…wait…”

Natasha made no response as she rode past him. 

“Babe, hold on a second!” Clint said.

But his camel suddenly refused to budge.


	17. Prompt: Days Off

_December 17th_

**Prompt: Days Off**

Clint didn’t dare breathe in the dead silence.

“Come out, Barton,” a voice sing-songed somewhere off to his left. 

He shifted, taking a step with measured precision, placing his boot against the linoleum floor carefully to prevent the leather sole from squeaking and giving away his position in the dark. He tightened his grip on his rifle, the butt nestled against his shoulder, his finger hovering over the trigger.

“You’re surrounded and outnumbered,” another voice said, behind him this time. Different from the first. A little huskier, a little lower.

Clint pressed his forehead to the stack of crates he hid behind, the wood rough against his skin. He was running out of time and options. If he moved, he’d be shot in a heartbeat. If he didn’t move, he was a sitting duck.

“You can’t hide forever,” a third voice said. Inches from his right ear.

Clint flinched and spun, whirling his gun toward the voice.

But he didn’t even get a chance to fire off a single shot.

Pain exploded in his chest. The _thwack, thwack, thwack_ of bullets tore through the air.

“LIGHTS!” someone shouted.

Light flickered on and illuminated the large warehouse. Clint lay flat on his back, orange paint slicked across the visor of his face mask, dripping down his chest, pooling around him on the cold cement.

Three figures stood over him, paintball guns strapped to their vests. One by one, they pushed their masks up to reveal Maria Hill, Okoye, and Natasha Romanoff, smug as cats with their victory.

“Three against one is hardly fair,” Clint coughed out. 

Maria chuckled. “Of course not.”

Natasha grinned. “But it sure is fun.”

Clint groaned and rolled over, smearing more paint on his elbows and knees. “I’m going to be a giant walking bruise tomorrow.”

Natasha took his arm and hauled him to his feet. “Want me to kiss it better?” she said in a wry tone.

Clint paused, the visor halfway off of his head. “That could help.”

She hummed and leaned in closer...

Then she veered away. Clint swayed forward on his toes, blinking, stunned at the sudden change in Natasha’s course.

“Not until you've had a shower,” she said, looking him up and down. “You’re covered in paint.” She gestured at herself with a flourish, cocking one hip in a sarcastic pose. “And I am clean as a whistle. I intend to keep it that way for the rest of the day.”

Natasha tugged her mask back into place and headed off to refill her ammunition. 

“We’ll see about that!” Clint called after her. “You’re going down, Romanoff!”

Natasha raised her hand over her head, wiggling her fingers in a wave without turning around. “All I hear is a lot of talk and no action.”

Clint growled and yanked his face mask on again, ready for round two.


	18. Prompt: Celebrations

_December 18th_

**Prompt: Celebrations**

Natasha woke to the soft press of Clint’s lips on the back of her neck. She smiled into her pillow and stretched, reaching over her shoulder to card her fingers through Clint’s hair.

“Didn’t think you’d make it back in time,” Natasha said, her voice a low, contented rasp.

“I nagged Fury until he gave in,” Clint replied. He shrugged out of his jacket, dropping it to the floor, heedless of where it landed. His pants, t-shirt, and boots followed shortly afterwards, piled in a heap at the foot of the bed.

Clint’s fingers danced down Natasha’s bare spine, nudging the sheets aside to reveal even more of her sleep-warmed skin. Natasha hooked her ankle over Clint’s calf - part invitation, part demand. _Get over here._

Clint sidled closer, his hip flush against hers, one elbow propped on the pillow beside her. He idly twirled her tangled curls around his finger.

“Can’t believe it’s already been five years,” he said.

Natasha hummed in agreement, reveling in the glide of Clint’s fingers on her skin in the dark.

“If we’re being honest here,” she said, knowing the bedroom was the only place that was sacred when it came to honesty. She rolled over to look up at Clint. “Any regrets?”

Clint didn’t hesitate, didn’t flinch. He brushed a lock of hair off of Natasha’s forehead, trailing his thumb down her cheek and across her lower lip.

“None,” he said. “I would marry you again in a heartbeat.”

Natasha took Clint’s hand and kissed his palm. He smelled like coffee, cloves, and fresh air. Mountain air. With pines and snow. Someplace far away from their apartment in Manhattan. 

“You know,” Clint said. “This is the first year we’re not working on the day of our anniversary.”

“We should celebrate,” Natasha said, flicking her gaze up to Clint’s eyes with a steady, unwavering look.

“Champagne?” he offered. “Breakfast in bed? Maybe a movie later?”

Natasha tilted her head as if in thought, even though she already knew how she wanted to celebrate. 

She sat up, the sheets pooling around her waist. She slid her arms around Clint’s neck and kissed him, her tongue dragging along the roof of his mouth in a slow, delicious slide.

Clint made a small pleased sound in the back of his throat and pressed Natasha into the pillows until she was completely surrounded by the heat of his body against hers.

Natasha cupped Clint’s face in her hands and broke away to look at him, his pupils blown wide with desire, the lines of his face painted blue with 2am shadows.

“Just you,” Natasha said. “That’s all I want.”

“I’m all yours,” Clint replied, barely a breath between them. “Happy anniversary, Nat.”

Natasha grinned and pulled the sheets over them both, with no intention to share him with anyone else for the entire day.


	19. Prompt: Quotes

_December 19th_

**Prompt: Quotes**

Natasha ducked into the hallway of her apartment, fumbling with her phone. She punched in Fury’s number, praying he would answer her call. 

“Please, please, please,” she whispered.

A rustle of movement somewhere in her apartment made her go silent. She glanced down the hallway, the end of the corridor shrouded in shadow.

Finally, Fury’s voice echoed over the end of the line.

“Director Fury,” he said.

Natasha let out a breath of relief, pressing her back to the wall, staring into that mass of darkness.

“It’s Romanoff,” she replied in a rush. “You have to help me.”

At any other time, Fury would have tensed up at the desperation in Natasha’s voice. Especially when Natasha never showed desperation. And she certainly didn’t ask for help.

“I can’t,” Fury said.

“Nick, come on,” Natasha said through gritted teeth.

“Nope. You got yourself into this, Natasha. Now you suffer the consequences.”

Natasha opened her mouth to protest but her words died in her throat when a footstep whisked closer to the hallway. She shrank back, taking comfort from the solidarity of the wall behind her.

“Fury,” she whispered. “Just send some back up. ASAP. I’ll owe you one.”

But Natasha didn’t hear Fury’s reply. 

Clint slid into the corridor on socked feet, wearing a Darth Vader mask, a glowing red lightsaber clutched in his hands.

“You don’t know the power of the dark side!” he declared.

Fury chuckled on the other end of the phone.

“It’s not funny,” Natasha said. “He’s been like this for two weeks straight.”

Clint waved the lightsaber back and forth, alternating between pew-pew and swish-swish noises for special sound effects.

“Then maybe," Fury said, "you’ll think twice about pissing off an entire fleet of Russian spies who want your head on a spike.”

Natasha huffed. “I can handle myself. I hate hiding like a coward.”

“You’re not a coward. You’re taking orders. Lay low until I can sort out your mess. Until then, Barton will be keeping an eye on you. And no, I will not assign anyone else to your protective detail.” He paused and Natasha could hear the laughter in his voice when he added, “I’m enjoying this too much.”

Natasha growled and hung up. She glanced at Clint who was still swishing his lightsaber around with whooshing noises.

“Give yourself to the dark side,” he rasped.

Natasha rolled her eyes. “You are a child.”

Clint reached into his back pocket and pulled out a second lightsaber.

“I got you a purple one,” he said.

Natasha went silent, her gaze on that lightsaber. She darted forward, snatched it out of his hand and ignited it in one smooth motion.

“I feel the good in you, the conflict,” she said, playing along.

She smacked her lightsaber against Clint’s in a brief attack then took off running, deeper into the apartment in search of her Jedi robes.


	20. Prompt: Skills/Training

_December 19th_

**Prompt: Skills/Training**

"There's a reason I don't spar with you, Nat," Clint said as he perched on a table in the gym, swinging his legs back and forth.

Natasha was dressed in black leggings, a black tank top and a red sports bra visible underneath. She bounced from foot to foot, wound tight with pent up energy. She grinned at Clint and jerked her chin at him as if to say, _I dare you._

"You're just afraid I'll kick your ass," she said.

"I like distance. Hence the bow and arrows."

Natasha's eyes sparkled as she leaned in closer, nose to nose.

"Chicken," she teased.

Even when she was irritating him on purpose like this, even when she was covered in sweat, Clint still wanted to kiss her.

"Nat," he said.

Natasha hummed, raising an eyebrow. "Yes?"

Clint opened his mouth, a “no” already forming on the tip of his tongue. But as he looked at Natasha, he knew she would always be the exception. He had never been able to keep his distance with her, from the moment he met her.

“All right,” he sighed.

Natasha grinned, triumphant. She stepped back onto the sparring mat as Clint jumped off of the table. 

The second he set foot on the mat, Natasha launched at him. Clint twisted to the side, blocking her strike to his face with a forearm. He delivered a jab to her stomach but she absorbed it easily and countered with an elbow in his ribs.

Back and forth they went, attacking, defending. Clint could feel Natasha pulling her punches, saving her energy for the grand finale when she had sorted out his weak points to drive home the killing blow.

He considered letting her win. But she would know if he gave in too easily, too soon. And now that he had agreed to a sparring match, he wasn’t about to hand her a victory. 

In the end, it didn’t matter. Natasha and Clint found themselves at a stalemate, arms locked, legs braced.

Natasha flicked her gaze up to Clint’s face. “Looks like we’re at an impasse,” she said.

“You could surrender,” Clint offered.

“Fat chance.”

“Well someone has to be the winner here.”

The words were barely out of his mouth when Natasha darted in and kissed him. Clint made a small noise of surprise and his grip loosened a fraction of an inch.

Natasha swiped Clint’s legs out from underneath him and he dropped to the mat, flat on his back. He choked out a laugh.

“That’s cheating,” he said.

“That’s playing dirty,” Natasha replied. “And if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you liked it.”

Clint groaned. “Oh, I’m never gonna live this one down.” 


	21. Prompt: Dates

_December 21st_

**Prompt: Dates**

“What I wouldn’t give,” Clint said. “For a normal date.”

He tucked the pistol back into his shoulder holster, concealed by his tux jacket.

Natasha shrugged and tossed him a pair of handcuffs. “You would miss this,” she said. “And you know it.”

Clint snapped the handcuffs onto the criminal, kneeling at his feet. “Cuffing bad guys in a dark alley thousands of miles away from home is not my idea of a fun night out, Nat.”

She clicked a picture of the criminal as he squinted in the glare of the flash. She tapped out a quick text and sent it off to Fury before sliding her phone into her clutch purse.

Natasha gestured to herself, a grand sweeping gesture of her arm to encompass her elaborate ensemble - floor-length black silk gown, with straps as thin as spider’s silk, elbow length white gloves, and diamond earrings. Her hair was curled in loose waves that brushed her shoulders.

“We’ve already been to a party tonight,” she said. “What more could you want?”

Clint huffed. “Hardly counts. That was work related.”

“Do you have anything in mind then?”

Clint considered for a moment and tilted his head. “Well, we’re in Venice. Could make the most of it while we’re here.”

Natasha ambled forward and slipped her arm through the crook of Clint’s elbow.

“Sounds good to me,” she replied.

Together, arm in arm, they wandered through the twisting, winding labyrinthine streets of Venice, all dressed up with no party to attend except the company of each other. Clint stopped at a vendor and returned with a giant bowl of chocolate gelato to share between them. Natasha kicked off her heels and dangled them from her fingers, padding along the stone streets barefoot.

When dawn began to pink the sky, Natasha leaned in and kissed Clint’s cheek.

“You’re right,” she said.

Clint’s eyebrows shot up. “Hold on a second. I need to write this on the calendar. I never thought those two words would come out of your mouth.”

“Very funny,” Natasha said. “What I meant was...we should do this more often. Normal dating.”

“Are you sure you won’t miss the cuffing bad guys in a dark alley part? Because you seem to enjoy that. A lot.”

Natasha hummed in thought. “I like this more,” she said, squeezing his arm. “Except for the shoes. The dress itches, too.”

“Then take it off.”

Natasha blinked once and stared at him. Clint winced.

“Wow, that came out wrong -”

“I certainly hope it didn’t.”

Clint sputtered mid-sentence. “What?”

Natasha plucked at his bow tie that he had tugged loose the first chance he got. She slid it off, rolled it up and tucked it in his jacket pocket.

“You heard what I said,” she replied. “Maybe our next date should be a little more...casual.” Natasha’s hands trailed down Clint’s chest and she hooked two fingers in the belt of his trousers. “Starting now.”


	22. Prompt: FREE DAY

_December 22nd_

**Prompt: FREE DAY**

This guy wouldn’t stop following Natasha and it was majorly freaking her out.

She tried to shake him. Taking the longer, convoluted way home that she’d never taken before. Driving an hour and a half just for a trip to an unfamiliar grocery store so it was harder to track her habits.

Still, that guy lingered. Sometimes leaning against her car. Sometimes idly pacing on the corner with his hands in his pockets.

But he never tried to approach her or speak to her.

When Natasha returned to her apartment in St. Petersburg one night, her nerves were frayed, tension cramped in her back and neck. The stress was getting to her. It was time to call the police and report she had a stalker.

She fished her cell phone out of her pocket and as she began to dial, a noise stopped her.

“Ahem.”

Natasha’s head snapped up. He was here. That guy. In her apartment. Less than ten feet away from her. She fumbled for the pepper spray in her coat pocket and held it up.

“Stay back,” she said. “I have pepper spray and I _will_ use it.”

He shrugged. “That’s not necessary.” He pointed to her phone. “And you don’t have to call the police either.”

Natasha snorted. “You’ll have to excuse me if I don’t believe you.”

“Maybe we should back up for a minute.” He bowed with a sarcastic flourish. “My name is Clint.”

“Get out of my apartment and stop following me. Final warning.”

Clint shrugged again. He wore a t-shirt and jeans despite the two feet of snow outside, piled up on the sidewalks, streets, and rooftops. He rubbed at the back of his neck.

“Look, I think we got off on the wrong foot here.”

Natasha shook her head. “You’ve been stalking me for weeks. That’s all I need to know.”

Clint winced. “Stalking seems like such a...strong word.”

“If the shoe fits.”

Clint, seemingly unconcerned with the pepper spray Natasha was brandishing, wandered over to the side table in the entry way and nudged through the pile of bills laying there. He clucked his tongue in dismay.

“Life has not been kind to you, Natasha.”

The blood ran cold in Natasha’s veins at the sound of her name in this stranger’s mouth. 

“How do you know who I am?” she said.

Clint abandoned the stack of bills and raised his gaze to meet Natasha’s eye.

“I’ve been assigned to you,” he said. As if it was a simple fact. Common knowledge. 

“ _Assigned_?” Natasha repeated in disbelief. 

Clint nodded. “I’m your guardian angel.”

Before Natasha could even process that statement, Clint’s shoulders flexed and a pair of snow white wings extended from his back. A move that would have been majestic and breathtaking if he’d had more space. 

Instead, his wings only managed to open half-way before they hit the narrow corridor’s walls. A wingtip knocked over the side table, sending the overdue bills skidding across the floor. His other wing bumped against the light fixture overhead. Shards of glass showered down on Clint and Natasha’s heads, plunging them into darkness.

“Oops,” Clint muttered.

"You can’t be serious.”

“Surprise?” Clint said, adding a flare of jazz hands as if that would ease the tension of the situation.

Natasha might have thought it was an act. Except that a second ago, there had been a normal-looking guy standing in her apartment. And now...now there were feathers. A lot of feathers. 

Natasha unleashed her pepper spray.


	23. Prompt: AU/Crossovers

_December 23rd_

**Prompt: AU/Crossovers**

“Hey sailor.”

Clint’s blood ran cold at that smooth, seductive voice, like a cat with a trapped mouse. It was dark - no moon, a dusting of clouds scudding across the sky to hide the stars - and that voice slithered over the railing, prickling at the back of his neck.

He always volunteered for the night watch. No one else wanted to stay up hour after hour, with nothing to do to stave off the creep of boredom. But Clint liked it. The solitude suited him. The silence granted him time to his own thoughts.

Except for tonight. He wasn’t alone.

Clint edged closer to the railing and peered over the side. In the back of his mind, the echo of Captain Fury’s words rang in his head, though he didn’t understand what the captain meant until it was too late.

_When the sun goes down, don’t look into the water._

The tides shifted and swayed, the ocean’s waters a glossy swath of ink black. A flare of fire red hair marred the surface, along with a spill of pale skin that ended in a sky-blue…tail.

A face gazed up at him with a coy smile as if victory had already been won. Female.

_Siren._

As soon as the word blazed in Clint’s mind, the ocean swelled, rising in a tidal wave that could smother the ship, drag it deep and crush it to pieces. The woman rose with it, her arms lazily drifting back and forth, treading water.

She leaned toward him, her red curls gliding over her shoulders in wet tendrils like seaweed. She reached out and Clint pitched forward on his toes, drawn to her presence, even though he knew he should call for help.

Her fingers cupped his cheek, her touch as warm and gentle as a summer’s breeze.

“Who are you?” Clint managed to grate out. His thoughts were thick and slow, his mouth sandy dry.

The woman hummed with a slow, decadent smile. “Natasha.”

“Natasha,” Clint repeated. The word felt delicious on his tongue. He wanted to say it over and over again.

“Why don’t you come for a swim with me?” she said, fingers dancing down the column of his throat, plucking at the collar of his shirt. “All work and no play aboard this musty ship.”

 _Don’t,_ he thought. But his mouth said something else.

“Yes.”

Natasha laughed and darted in, licking at his bottom lip. Clint’s breath hitched and his fingers grasped for her hip - soft skin and sharp scales beneath his palm.

Before he could close that minuscule scrap of distance between them and kiss her, Natasha pulled away, tugging on his belt.

He felt his legs strike the ship’s railing, though he never saw it.

Only Natasha.

He felt himself falling, though he didn’t see the ocean, ready to swallow him whole.

Only Natasha.

Then a hand grabbed the back of Clint’s shirt and yanked him backward. He hit the deck flat on his back. Captain Fury glared down at him.

“What were you thinking, Lieutenant Barton?” he demanded.

The rush and hiss of the ocean retreated. Clint’s head snapped up just in time to see Natasha vanish from sight as the water level sank back to normal.

“Do you have any idea what you were about to get yourself into?” Captain Fury demanded. “That was a _siren_. She would rip out your teeth and wear them for a necklace.”

“I resent that,” Natasha said, her voice drifting up to them on deck.

Captain Fury kept his gaze leveled on the horizon as he approached the railing. “I hope you don’t expect me to apologize for hurting your feelings.”

Natasha feigned an offended sniff. “I’ll have you know that I keep my souvenirs in a jar. Not a bawdy necklace. My tastes are more refined than that.”

“Stay away from my lieutenant, siren,” Captain Fury said.

Natasha flicked her tail. “Oh, Captain,” she replied. “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“I like the way he loses his mind over me.” She blew a kiss in Clint’s direction with a wink. “I’ll see you again real soon, sailor.”


	24. Prompt: Traditions & Routines

_December 24th_

**Prompt: Traditions & Routines**

When Clint got home from a mission, he always slept for three days straight.

Natasha didn’t interrupt him. She tiptoed through the apartment and never dared to cook anything in the kitchen. Clint would smell the food and wake up, bleary-eyed with a horrific case of bed-head and barely conscious.

Every morning, Clint kicked the blankets off of him in his sleep, one arm flung over his head, the other arm draped over the edge of the bed. 

Every morning, Natasha slipped out of bed as quietly and carefully as she could. She retrieved the blankets from the floor and tucked them around Clint again with a kiss to his cheek.

“Sweet dreams,” she whispered, carding her fingers through his hair one last time before she crept out of the room.

But on the fourth day, Natasha’s patience ran out.

She headed to the kitchen and returned seconds later, clanging a wooden spoon against a massive cooking pot.

“Rise and shine, buttercup!” she yelled at the top of her lungs.

Clint groaned and yanked the blankets over his head. “Nat, cut it out.”

She clanged louder.

“Get up, get up, get up!”

“Let me _sleep_ ,” Clint grumbled.

“Nope. You’ve been gone for three weeks. I want attention.”

“Clearly.”

Natasha tossed the pot and spoon aside. She climbed up onto the bed, kneeling on either side of Clint’s hips. He pushed the blanket down to look at Natasha, a small, pleased little smile creeping across his lips.

“You have to say it,” he said.

Natasha snorted. “Not on your life.”

“I can’t hear you,” Clint sing-songed.

Natasha narrowed her eyes. She snatched up her pillow and smacked Clint in the face. He flinched, shielding his head with his arms and laughed.

“I knew it,” he said, muffled. “You missed me.”


	25. Prompt: The Holidays

_December 25th_

**Prompt: The Holidays**

Natasha always volunteered to work over the holidays. She didn’t commemorate any holiday, especially when it revolved around family. 

But when she met Clint, she couldn’t avoid it any longer.

Clint went hog wild at Christmas.

Natasha surveyed the mess of his living room, Clint seated at the center of it all. A sea of tangled Christmas lights were circled around him, along with tinsel strands wrapped around his neck like flower leis. On his head was a lop-sided Santa hat and every time he leaned over to investigate a Christmas light bulb, the white pom-pom bumped against his nose. He swatted it out of the way like a cat with a ball of yarn.

Natasha hadn’t seen this side of Clint. He’d been sarcastic with her before, sure. But not...child-like with wonder the way he was now.

“Hey, Nat,” Clint said absently from beneath a pile of Christmas lights. “A little help here?”

The words were like a shock of cold water, splashing her in the face. This was foreign territory she purposefully did not venture into, even with such a harmless task as lending a hand.

“No,” Natasha said, bordering on a low growl. “I don’t do holidays.”

Clint paused, his Santa hat nearly sliding off of his head as he looked up at her. The lights blinked in multi-colored flashes, illuminating his face in a rainbow.

“Oh,” he said. “So like...for religious reasons? Or...?”

Clint left the sentence dangling, waiting for Natasha to fill in the blank. 

She didn’t and she never would.

She turned away, pulled open the door.

“Because I just don’t and that’s all you need to know,” Natasha said over her shoulder and walked out, leaving Clint to his Christmas chaos.

***

On Christmas Eve, Clint showed up at Natasha’s door with a plate in hand. Sugar cookies frosted like snowflakes. 

“They’re not Christmas cookies, I swear,” Clint said, raising his voice to be heard through the door. “They’re I-suck-please-forgive-me-for-being-an-insensitive-ass cookies.”

Natasha opened the door. “That’s a mouthful.”

“Well, I have a lot to make up for after the other day.”

Natasha selected a cookie and broke off a piece. Clint studied her for a moment, hopeful.

“Does this mean...we’re good?” he said.

She shrugged. “Haven’t finished the cookie yet. Might need another one.”

Clint shoved the plate into her arms. “Take all of them if it’ll help.”

Natasha pushed the cookies away, shaking her head. “Just tell me one thing. Then we’ll call it even.”

“Name it.”

Natasha paused, considering the impact of what she was about to ask. It might leave her vulnerable. And she had only known Clint for a little over a year by now. What if he rejected her question and closed himself off from her? They were tentatively building a delicate bridge of trust between them but sometimes Natasha couldn’t bring herself to set foot on it, let alone cross it.

To hell with it. She might as well try.

“Why is Christmas so important to you?” Natasha said.

Clint tipped his head to the side in thought. “Because it’s...it brings out the good in people.”

“Clint,” Natasha said with a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding tone. “I saw a woman wearing a helmet, elbow and knee pads at the store yesterday when she was Christmas shopping for her kids.”

Clint waved her off. “No, no, not that part. I mean the heart of Christmas. It’s about the generosity of giving gifts. It’s about the wonder of Santa Claus and snow and a white Christmas. It’s about family.”

“You don’t have a family, Clint,” Natasha said in a flat voice. “How can you celebrate something that only serves as a reminder of what you’ve lost?”

Too late, Natasha realized she’d tipped her hand. Clint raised his eyebrows as the light of understanding dawned in his eyes.

“Is that why you took off?” he said. 

“No, I -”

“It’s okay if it was,” Clint cut in. He stepped forward and took Natasha’s hand. “You’re right, Nat. I don’t have a family and it kills me sometimes that they’re not here anymore. But I have friends. I have a good life. That’s what I choose to celebrate. Everyone has their own special little joy at Christmas and that’s mine.” 

He gave her hand a squeeze.

“Maybe it’s time you found your own joy to celebrate, too,” he said.

***

After Clint left, Natasha paced her apartment, restless with his words rattling around in her head.

_I have a good life. That’s what I choose to celebrate._

Sometimes she caught herself waiting to wake up from this impossible dream and find herself in the Red Room. A year had flown by and she was still tensed, poised for fight or flight. She wondered if that would ever wear off...

The image of Clint huddled on his living room floor sprang up in her mind again. Christmas lights reflected in his eyes. Red and white Santa hat slipping down over his nose. His apartment smelling of sugar and vanilla from an afternoon of baking and peppermint hot chocolate.

Natasha surveyed her barren apartment. It was awash in flat, grey shadows like a shroud of mourning.

And suddenly all she wanted to do was escape.

Natasha grabbed her coat on the way out the door and fled. Down the stairs and onto the snowy street, skidding and slipping as she ran to Clint’s apartment. When she pounded on the door, Clint’s footsteps echoed on the other side.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” he muttered as he opened the door then stopped. “Natasha. Hi.”

Natasha faltered on the threshold. Then, before she lost her nerve to do it, she surged forward, took Clint’s face in her hands and kissed him.

Clint’s hands curved over her hips and around her waist, pulling her inside, into the warmth of Christmas.

“I want to celebrate with you,” she whispered, a breath against his lips. “You’re my Christmas joy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO MUCH for reading! I've never done an event like this before, let alone written so much on a daily basis. Hope you liked it! Feel free to say hi on tumblr @cricket-scribbles. I'm also on Dreamwidth @cricketscribbles


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